Jack pulled out his reading glasses, removed the creased white paper from
the torn envelope, and began reading. Scanning the return address in the
upper-right corner, Jack was not surprised to see that the letter was from
a Mr. Charles Mahoney, his ex-wife's Rochester lawyer.
"Dear Mister Malone," Jack began aloud, "I hate to be the one to break this to you, but your ex-wife Maria has suddenly..." Jack's eyes widened. "...Passed away at the age of forty-eight, due to a massive heart attack." Jack re-read the first line, the realization hitting him hard in his solar plexus. Putting the letter down, Jack stood up and began pacing around his kitchen, his scotch forgotten.
"Dead?" Jack murmured. "She's younger than I am..." Jack continued pacing, until another, more powerful thought made its way into his mind, sending him straight back to his chair, frantically picking up the letter. What about Hanna and Kate?
"As unlikely as it may seem, she did leave you something in her will. The reading of the will is going to take place May seventeenth—" Jack looked over at the faded wall calendar on his fridge, double checking that day's date—the eleventh of May. "In addition," Jack finished, "Your daughters, Kate and Hanna, will be present for the reading, too. Regards, Charles Quincy Mahoney."
Stunned, Jack headed towards his bedroom, still holding the letter in his hand. He set it on his bed, as if it were made of the most fragile glass and precious crystal, and began his nightly ritual of undressing.
Jack unbuttoned his shirt, tossing both that and his tie onto the floor. He began to pull his undershirt over his head, but paused, his arms frozen over his head. Instinctually, he went over to his dresser, pulling open the second-from-the-bottom drawer, and pulled out an old album. When Maria had kicked him out their home months before the divorce, Jack had managed to put together a crude, makeshift photo album from the doubles he knew Maria had kept in an old shoebox stored the bottom of their bedroom closet. That photo album was the one and only physical memory that Jack had left from his old life.
Settling on the edge of his creaky bed, Jack stared in awe at what had once been his life. Maria, when they had first begun dating. Jack and Maria just days before their engagement. Jack and Maria at their wedding brunch. Maria pregnant with their oldest child, Hanna. Maria in the hospital with Jack and Hanna. Hanna's first birthday. Jack, Maria pregnant a second time, and Hanna at the park. Hanna's first steps. Maria, Hanna, and newborn Kate, in her christening gown. Hanna's first day of school. Kate's first steps. Jack and Maria at their fifth wedding anniversary party.
The pictures continued up to Hanna and Kate's school pictures, Kate in first grade, and Hanna in third, the last pictures Jack had of his daughters. Sighing, he closed the album and rested his elbows on his knees, pressing his palms together and resting his hands against his mouth. What was he trying to suppress? Tears of regret and remorse? Screams of anger and misunderstanding? Laughter for what had once been? Jack swallowed hard and closed his eyes.
"Too much..." Jack murmured, rubbing his dry eyes with his the heels of his hands. "Too much," he repeated and abruptly stood up, briskly pulling off his undershirt, and removing his belt. "You know," Jack began while shaking his head, a sardonic smile appearing on his aged face, "You sure picked one hell of a week to spring all this shit on me at once," he finished, commenting to any deity that might be listening.
And with that, Jack finished undressing and retired to the shower to finish his day.
"Dear Mister Malone," Jack began aloud, "I hate to be the one to break this to you, but your ex-wife Maria has suddenly..." Jack's eyes widened. "...Passed away at the age of forty-eight, due to a massive heart attack." Jack re-read the first line, the realization hitting him hard in his solar plexus. Putting the letter down, Jack stood up and began pacing around his kitchen, his scotch forgotten.
"Dead?" Jack murmured. "She's younger than I am..." Jack continued pacing, until another, more powerful thought made its way into his mind, sending him straight back to his chair, frantically picking up the letter. What about Hanna and Kate?
"As unlikely as it may seem, she did leave you something in her will. The reading of the will is going to take place May seventeenth—" Jack looked over at the faded wall calendar on his fridge, double checking that day's date—the eleventh of May. "In addition," Jack finished, "Your daughters, Kate and Hanna, will be present for the reading, too. Regards, Charles Quincy Mahoney."
Stunned, Jack headed towards his bedroom, still holding the letter in his hand. He set it on his bed, as if it were made of the most fragile glass and precious crystal, and began his nightly ritual of undressing.
Jack unbuttoned his shirt, tossing both that and his tie onto the floor. He began to pull his undershirt over his head, but paused, his arms frozen over his head. Instinctually, he went over to his dresser, pulling open the second-from-the-bottom drawer, and pulled out an old album. When Maria had kicked him out their home months before the divorce, Jack had managed to put together a crude, makeshift photo album from the doubles he knew Maria had kept in an old shoebox stored the bottom of their bedroom closet. That photo album was the one and only physical memory that Jack had left from his old life.
Settling on the edge of his creaky bed, Jack stared in awe at what had once been his life. Maria, when they had first begun dating. Jack and Maria just days before their engagement. Jack and Maria at their wedding brunch. Maria pregnant with their oldest child, Hanna. Maria in the hospital with Jack and Hanna. Hanna's first birthday. Jack, Maria pregnant a second time, and Hanna at the park. Hanna's first steps. Maria, Hanna, and newborn Kate, in her christening gown. Hanna's first day of school. Kate's first steps. Jack and Maria at their fifth wedding anniversary party.
The pictures continued up to Hanna and Kate's school pictures, Kate in first grade, and Hanna in third, the last pictures Jack had of his daughters. Sighing, he closed the album and rested his elbows on his knees, pressing his palms together and resting his hands against his mouth. What was he trying to suppress? Tears of regret and remorse? Screams of anger and misunderstanding? Laughter for what had once been? Jack swallowed hard and closed his eyes.
"Too much..." Jack murmured, rubbing his dry eyes with his the heels of his hands. "Too much," he repeated and abruptly stood up, briskly pulling off his undershirt, and removing his belt. "You know," Jack began while shaking his head, a sardonic smile appearing on his aged face, "You sure picked one hell of a week to spring all this shit on me at once," he finished, commenting to any deity that might be listening.
And with that, Jack finished undressing and retired to the shower to finish his day.